


A gift

by WahlBuilder



Series: Scarves and Mittens [1]
Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 22:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2709485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the world is falling apart, you just need small things to feel human again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A gift

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of a reply to [this fluffy thing](http://brother-captain.tumblr.com/post/103510087405/its-not-christmas-its-not-even-december-yet-i) written by Hawke-bro. Thank you for sharing this Christmas fluff!

Sigismund was on the way to his quarters, spending the previous hours in the practice cage. Fights and battles were his meditation, he had tried to clear his mind but failed in this simple task. Two urges had been tearing him apart these days. The first was to never leave his father’s side, not for a single moment. He knew perfectly well that his lord was capable of being on his own, and this urge, Sigismund had to admit, it was pointless, useless, made no sense. But he couldn’t stand the way his primarch’s face had been turning into a stone with each passing day, and a thought nagged at Sigismund mind, haunting him days and nights. Was this stone mask going to crack some day? He wanted to be there by his side, say something, do something, but he wasn’t good at this, didn’t know what to do. He knew only that he could snap at any moment, unleash his frustration and confusion on anyone who was responsible for every new layer of stone on his father’s face.

And so the second urge pulled him to practice cages. He had been searching for peace, ridiculous as it could sound these days, when everything had been falling apart. He sought for focus, determination, something to put his thoughts on, but he couldn’t find it. He didn’t want to show his confusion and barely controlled anger at everything and nothing in particular. He had fled from his father’s side because he couldn’t handle to see this mask anymore, but moreover, he couldn’t stand his own inability to do anything to ease this burden, the weight of the whole world on his lord’s back.

He had destroyed a few practice cages, trying to ease frustration clawing at his guts.

That gift, a scarf, was a stupid move but his lord seemed to like it nonetheless. The memory of the embrace his father gave him made Sigismund relax his shoulders a little.

‘My lord Sigismund?’ a voice sounded behind him, pulling him out of his thoughts.

He looked down to find a small servitor watching him with flickering optics. There was a package in its hands.

‘Yes, what do you need?’ he growled, eyeing the servitor with suspicion.

‘This package is for you, my lord,’ it said mechanically, offering him a small black box.

‘Who sent this?’ asked Sigismund, taking the package after a moment of hesitation. It was surprisingly light in his hands. He shook it cautiously but whatever was in the box, it didn’t make any sound.

‘This information is classified,’ replied the servitor and with soft creaking noise walked away.

Sigismund followed it with narrowed eyes, then turned his attention to the box.

It was simple, without any signs or attachments. He peaked into it, lifting the cover, and nearly dropped the box.

Inside it lay a pair of mittens, black and big enough for Sigismund’s palms. When he took one of the mittens out of the box, he noticed a piece of paper under them, neatly folded in half. Holding the mittens and the box in one hand, he unfolded the paper.

_‘You will need them when we return to Inwit.’_

It was not signed but he recognised the beautifully smooth handwriting of his lord. He couldn’t suppress a small smile at these words, unusual warmth spreading inside of him and melting away all distress.

He hid the note in the folds of his robes and, holding the box under his arm, put on the mittens. They were covered with thick fur on the inside and fitted perfectly, as if they were made specially for him. He looked around but there was nobody else in the corridor, and he covered his face with his hands, nuzzling the mittens. Maybe he was imagining things but he could swear that they smelled of wood and pines and clean water.

They smelled of home.


End file.
